


Steam and Deliver

by Liadt



Category: Find It Fix It Flog It RPF
Genre: C19th AU, Highwaymen AU, M/M, Pre-Slash, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: Their eyes met across a crowded glade...When down on his luck Henry Cole holds up wealthy businessman, Simon O'Brien, he wishes he'd taken more than his money off him.





	Steam and Deliver

**Author's Note:**

> Not real, don't sue!
> 
> Written for the genprompt bingo wild card: freestyle AU.

Simon O’Brien was dozing off as the carriage made its way through the woods back to his new home: Cole Hall. Simon was a self-made man and he had bought the mansion for a song as the absentee landowner had gone bankrupt. The property had fallen into disrepair, but now it had been fully renovated, ready to be lived in. 

Suddenly, the carriage jolted to a halt and Simon looked up. Gemma Longworth, his housekeeper, stuck her head out of the window.  
"What's going on, Mr Carroll!" she called to the driver, followed by an, "Oh!" and she fell back on to the seat in shock. 

"What is it, Miss Longworth?" said Simon. 

"It's a stick up: highwaymen. Does this mean you will delay purchasing new furniture when they've fleeced us?” Gemma sounded uncommonly pleased about being held up. She kept trying to press Simon into painting furniture in unusually garish colours and he supposed she saw an opportunity to have her sartorial way.

Simon sighed and lent out the window. He hoped the highwaymen were not violent. There were two of them; one had blond hair, while the other's was dark. The dark haired one's face, above the scarf tied around his face, was soot streaked, like an engine driver's mate and the way he sat on his horse suggested he resented the animal for being powered by oats, not coal. The blond's clothes were as shabby as his accomplice, save for a fine hat. The dark haired one had his pistol trained on Carroll the driver. 

“What's the meaning of this?” said Simon, although he knew the answer.

The blond turned towards him. He held his pistol casually, trained on no one. Over confidence, perhaps?

“Your money or your life, sir. The same goes for your wife.” He did not sound threatening, as if the stick up was just a jest.

Simon gripped the side of the window, lest he fall out the door. From the outside, it could be interpreted as fear, but all Simon knew was the man’s blue eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners, in amusement, made his stomach flip. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden. He coughed. “The lady is my housekeeper. I am not married.” Why did he add that? The man was robbing him, he didn't need to know his relationship status.

“You still could have given her some expensive trinkets. She is pretty for a housekeeper.”

Simon frowned. “I repeat, I am not attached.”

“Oh? I'll remember that for later,” said the blond and winked.

The nerve of the man! He was joking, of course, which was annoying too. 

“G-uh-er, my good fellow, relieve them of their valuables, please.”

Simon was disappointed. He was hoping the ringleader would come close to him, brush his hand against his and then he could pull that scarf down and then … stop those thoughts, Simon, he chided himself. The man was an armed robber, not one to fantasise about. Simon did not want to accept reality yet. Talking to him a little longer would be nice. “You speak well. Aren’t you too well bred to be committing daylight robbery?”

“Breeding does not come with limitless supplies of money,” said the blond.

“You do not have to do this,” said Simon, as he handed his money and jewellery over to the other one.

“No, but until will have enough capital to raise ourselves out of the predicament we are in, we do.”

“Why not...”

“I've got the loot,” interrupted the dark haired one, and they kicked their horses into a gallop, disappearing into the trees. 

Simon scowled at the dark haired one's back. “They didn't let me finish what I was saying.” He was going to tell them, well, the blond, in truth, to give up crime as he could offer them a good job. Now, he would never see the intriguing blond again. It was for the best, he thought, he should not be having those thoughts about a man. 

“Why would they care what you said once they got what they wanted. Bloody villains!” shouted Gemma out the window. 

“I do not think they were real villains. The blond didn't have the eyes of a hardened criminal, more mischievous, I would say.”

Gemma made a disparaging noise. “Did one of them hit you over the head without me noticing? It would seem like it.”  
Simon thought in a way the blond had indeed done that.

* * * *

Inside a wooden outbuilding, on the outskirts of the village of Lower Ramsbottom, Henry and Guy, part time highwaymen, were huddled around a spluttering fire trying to keep warm.

“Not a bad haul. We will not do any better here. Time to move on,” said Guy as he admired Simon's pocket watch, with a chunky gold chain.

“I disagree. I would not mind running into that fellow we met again,” said Henry.

“Met? Robbed, you mean? Yes, he is rich, but I doubt he will be travelling without protection again.”

“I cannot imagine him ordering anyone to shoot at us. He had a friendly face and did you see his eyes? Lovely, and he couldn't take them off me either,” said Henry, smugly.

“You were telling him to stand and deliver, that does tend to get people's attention.”

“You were holding him up too. He barely gave you a second glance.”

“Why bother to look at me when you practically told him my name!”

“Sorry, mate, I was distracted.”

“I think you should keep in the background from now on.”

“Come off it, you know I'm much better at this ‘stand and deliver’ spiel than you.”

“Show off,” said Guy, without malice.

“I prefer to think of myself as one in a million.”

“It's not unusual to wear silly hats.”

“It is not strange to have a hat that was not knitted by a great aunt. Futhermore, I was having a nice conversation with the man until you interrupted. I never found out his name,” said Henry and sighed.

Guy rolled his eyes. “In the unlikely event a second meeting will not end with us being sent on a trip to the gallows, the man's name is Simon O'Brien.”

“How do you know that?”

“I take it you noticed his Liverpudlian accent?”

“Oh, yes.” Henry had found it most charming.

“What would a rich Liverpudlian be doing in this backwater? The only one likely to be around here would be O'Brien, the businessman who bought your ancestral home, remember?”

“I won't hold it against him – I was never fond of the old place and I have nothing against rich men who could be persuaded to invest in our steam engine company.”

“I wouldn't have thought so. He made his first fortune turning planks, too rotten even for firewood, into upmarket furniture and then made another fortune selling the soft furnishings to match. If he had an interest in engines, he would have invested in them by now. He's not a young man.”

“He's looking good for his age, though.”

Guy raised an eyebrow.

“Ahem! But you cannot expect everyone to be as passionate about engines as we are,” said Henry.

“Do you really want to get involved with a man who makes things out of wood, not metal?”

“I shall convert him to the joys of mechanics.”

Guy did not look convinced.

“And if I can't, I've still got you to talk to about engines.”

“Talking of which, have you seen my design for a new piston.” Guy pulled a piece of paper out his jacket pocket and unfolded it. Guy was attempting to make Henry forget O’Brien with a diverting diagram. It didn't work. 

“It will be a sweet thing when it’s made, like O’Brien when I think on it,” said Henry assessing the drawing. “You know, I would not care what O'Brien said to me in his accent, whether it be on the subject of wood, cushions or curtains!”

“Look, how do you know he even likes men?” said Guy, exasperated by his friend’s interest. “You could get into a lot of trouble, remember Italy?” It was a low tactic, but Henry needed to have his foolish notions knocked out of his head sometimes, like coming up with ideas for slow moving agricultural machinery. 

“Ahem, yes, hmm, you could be right; it could be time to be moving on.”

A look of relief flitted across Guy's face.

“It's time to give up thieving. If O'Brien is moving in, he is going to need help in the upkeep of the land. Where are the plans for the steam powered lawn-cutter? If all he knows is wood and curtains, then he is going to need our help. He need never know we have met before.”

Guy groaned.

“I'm not stupid, we will disguise ourselves. I will put on a wig and a common accent. If we play this right we could have money and love, what could be finer?”

“Where does love come in it for me?” said Guy, with a scowl.

“With money, there will be a new steam engine to keep you warm at night.”

Guy groaned again and wished there was a shed he could bury himself in.


End file.
